


Hold Me Down (I'm So Tired Now)

by QueenofEden



Series: Rotten Work [7]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blue Hawke, Cunnilingus, Emotionally Fraught Situations Abound, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Frottage, Hawke Lives, Light Angst, Porn with Feelings, Post-Here Lies the Abyss, Reunion Sex, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-07-14 03:50:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16032383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenofEden/pseuds/QueenofEden
Summary: Varric’s letter had been vague, but urgent. Terse in a way Varric rarely was, until it was too late.Hawke on her way to Weisshaupt. Knew you’d want to know. Go find her Rivaini, she needs you.





	Hold Me Down (I'm So Tired Now)

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to rose for giving me the initial idea of finally, after 4 years, writing post-inquisition reunion fic, to my patient and loving girlfriend who never complained no matter how many times i asked her to read this over and if it was good enough, and as always to kristyn [rhoswenmahariel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/salutationtothestars/pseuds/rhoswenmahariel), my person, for always being the best, most gracious beta, sounding board, and cheerleader
> 
> the other works in this series aren't necessary reading for this to make sense, but if you are so inclined, they do all feature my same custom hawke and follow a loosely chronological and connected series of events

In the end, it only takes two weeks to track Hawke down.

The innkeeper rifles through his ledger, searching for the first false name Isabela had ever taught her. She almost hopes he doesn’t find it, that for the first time since she began trailing her, Hawke would have done something -- anything -- right. Seconds drag by like hours, the old man taking his sweet time to check every line on every page meticulously.

“Ah, now I can’t seem to-- no, my mistake, there it is, room two.” He looks up at her over half-moon spectacles that magnify his beady eyes to a comical degree. “Will you be staying with Messere Bonhuerre? Or your own room, perhaps?” Isabela can’t even enjoy the very serious way he pronounces it, hardly blinking twice at the innuendo, too distracted by the desperate, clawing dread building inside of her chest. Damn that Hawke. Damn her, damn her, damn her. What was she doing? Was she trying to get herself killed?

The old man clears his throat, and Isabela blinks down at him. He grins, flashing her a mouth full of enough gold to put the lot of Perendale’s mines to shame.

“The room, Messere? It’ll be two gulder for the night.”

Scowling, Isabela glances up the simple staircase. “Put it on Bonhuerre’s tab.” It’s what she deserves, staying in a place like this.

The old man hands her a brass key with a number 4 etched into it and bids her a good day. Isabela pockets the key, and makes her way up the ominously creaking stairs. She ignores the room that is apparently hers now, and heads straight for the second one, making a mental note to warn anyone else never to stay in this hovel with no apparent sense of privacy or discretion. Not that anyone she knew would ever be caught dead here, in middle of nowhere Nevarra, but still.

Right in front of her, suddenly the door feels almost ominous. Just behind it, she can hear shuffling, and somehow that more than anything ratchets her heart rate up to a thousand. Of course Hawke was in there-- it was her room after all. Where else would she be? Enjoying the sights? So why should she be nervous now, as if that would do her any good? Pissed off would be better. Anger -- or at least some well earned righteous indignation-- she could work with.

With a deep breath, she raps her knuckles against the wood before she can chicken out. The shuffling stops, and there is a moment of utter, piercing silence before a familiar voice calls out, “Who’s there?”

All at once, every bit of Isabela’s falsely inflated bravado threatens to leak out of her like an unpuffed pastry. _Get it together, Isabela. Are you the Queen of the Eastern Seas or aren’t you_? She clears her throat, and, in the most saccharine tone she can muster, replies, “Housekeeping!”

Cheese, sure. Cliche, she knows, but effective, as it only takes a beat for the door to swing open. Hawke stands there, dressed in only a simple chemise, one hand on the door, and the other holding the same short dagger she’d carried on her belt as long as Isabela had known her. In the silence, she hears Hawke’s breath catch, watches her eyes go wide and the blade threaten to slip from her grasp.

“Isabela--”

“The one and only.” She grins and saunters without invitation, past Hawke, into the meager little room. The two of them together practically fill the space, with a single bed and a rickety looking desk set-up taking up what’s left. Cheap, but then again, you get what you pay for.

Hawke blinks, her eyes roving but never leaving Isabela’s face for too long, like if she did Isabela might disappear, a wisp of smoke in the fade. The thought that perhaps, Hawke had been dreaming of her enough to warrant such scrutiny, well-- it certainly wasn’t a bad one. The dark, sleepless bruises under Hawke’s eyes, of which Isabela takes silent, sour note, say otherwise.

“Wh-what are you doing here?” Hawke asks, regaining the wherewithal to at least shut and bolt the door behind her.

Isabela turns back to her and shrugs, hoping her air of nonchalance looks less feigned than it is. Inside, she feels like jelly, her idiot brain clanging like an alarm bell tolling out _HAWKE! HAWKE! HAWKE!_ as if she wasn’t already perfectly aware.

“I’m here for you, obviously.”

She crowds her against the doorframe, close but not quite touching. This close, she can see Hawke’s pretty eyes are wide with... shock? Excitement? The pupils so blown she can barely see the green flecked gold she’d missed so fiercely around them. She can smell her too-- bitter elfroot mixed with spicy-sweet embrium, so achingly familiar. She breathes it in until her lungs burn.

“Isabela, I--”

“What, you thought I came all this way for the scenery?”

Hawke frowns. Isabela reaches out instinctually and thumbs at the corner of her mouth, drawing it upwards as though she could force a smile with just her touch. “Oh come on, sweet thing, don’t give me that look.”

She grabs at Isabela’s wrist like she intends to pull her away. Instead, she hesitates, Isabela’s fingers still a barely-there brush away from her cheek. Then she turns it, not harshly, just enough to stare down at her thumb-- at the slightly puckered, freshly darkened scar across the pad.

“I healed this,” she says with an edge of quiet admonishment.

Isabela’s heart gives an agonized lurch. “I didn’t want to forget.”

Hawke squeezes her eyes shut, brow furrowed in phantom pain. “Bela--”

A tightness in her throat. Too long since she’d heard her own name spoken like that, watched the shape of Hawke’s mouth curl around the sounds. People had called her many things over many years, some kinder than others, but only to Hawke was she this-- this semi-perfect, gilded version of herself. _Bela--_ It rings between her ears, crystalline and pure.

The hand around her wrist flexes, bringing her back just in time to watch as Hawke dips to kiss the scar, just as she had before. There is no magic in her touch this time, just the dry warmth of her lips slipping parchment-soft against her skin.

“You aren’t supposed to be here,” Hawke breathes against her palm. She still hasn’t let go of Isabela’s wrist, her fingers pressing over where she knows her pulse beats, fluttering helplessly beneath thin skin.

“No one should be here, Hawke, look at this place.”

Hawke snorts, the first hint of a true smile playing at the edges of her mouth.

“Let me rephrase-- how did you get here?”

Isabela reaches out and toys with a bit of Hawke’s hair. It’s not quite as long as Before, but it’s getting there, a bit of the natural wave returning to the ends. “Our ship, until we ran out of sea to sail. A lot of walking.” She tugs on the lock and lets it bounce back into place on Hawke’s cheek. “Followed by a particularly rowdy riverboat. I had no idea river piracy was a thing, did you? They’re absolutely cut-throat, hardly a single moral between them. I may have accidentally offered to hire three of them on in exchange for not cutting off my hands over a game of cards. I hope they don’t actually show.”

She’s babbling like a brook -- _brook, rivers, hah_ \-- and she knows it. She rambles when she’s nervous, always has. Not that Hawke makes her nervous per se, but that look on her face certainly doesn’t induce a sense of calm. She sighs, resigned, in face of that utterly unimpressed eyebrow.

“Varric, obviously.”

Hawke sighs back, her shoulders sagging. “I should have known.”

To be fair, she really should have.

“I told him not to write you. He promised.”

Isabela could kiss Varric’s scruffy, lying face. “Tell a duck not to quack next time, you might get better results.”

Hawke groans and pulls away from their quasi-embrace to collapse, unceremoniously, on the bed. Her foot bobs with agitation, but her face is surprisingly serene, staring up at the ceiling in otherwise perfect repose.

“That still doesn’t explain how you found me _here_ \-- even I didn’t know I’d be here when I left.”

Isabela hovers where she stands, body screaming to join Hawke on the bed, but not entirely sure if Hawke wants to be joined. _I could find you if I was blind, deaf, and dumb in the dark_ , she wants to say. _My heart could track you for a thousand miles like a mabari with a scent._

“People like to talk,” she says instead. It’s no lie, the people in Jader-- nosy as fishwives, the lot of them-- loved their gossip. The same was true in Cumberland, in Nevarra City, in Hunter Fell. Everyone and their aunt’s cousin’s brother, in every town and village along the mighty Minater, seemed to have a story of spotting the supposedly illusive Champion of Kirkwall pass through. “Inquisitorial pardon or no, you should be more careful who sees you.”

Hawke grimaces but doesn’t say anything, leaving room for Isabela to continue. “Plus, you always did prefer to follow the main roads no matter how many times I’ve tried to tell you it’s not safe and, well, Perendale has the nearest circle to the Anderfel border.” _I know you better than you know yourself_. It had been the most logical conclusion-- a gamble she would have bet the house on, double or nothing.

“I suppose I should be grateful it was you that found me then, and not someone else,” Hawke says, in a tone that sounds not very grateful at all.

Isabela grips the back of the single, shoddily built chair. So that was how it was. “Gee, Hawke,” she huffs, grinning tightly, determined to ignore the feeling of her stomach twisting itself in and out of ever more complicated knots. “You sure do know how to make a girl feel wanted.”

Hawke sits up then, scanning Isabela’s face with sharp eyes. “What do you want me to say, Isabela? That I’m happy you’re here? You weren’t supposed to follow me on this one, it’s what we agreed on. You promised.”

“And you were supposed to come home!” Isabela snaps. The wooden chair creaks beneath her grip, and splinters dig into her fingertips. Her traitorous heart burns, and pounds out a rapid staccato against her ribs. “When all this shit with the Inquisition was over, you were supposed to come back to me, not just fuck off on another ridiculous fool’s errand. So fair’s fair, I guess we both broke our promises.”

Hawke looks up at her, lips slightly parted in surprise. Then her expression shifts, crumples, and suddenly she just looks-- sad. Defeated.

“It didn’t feel over with,” Hawke whispers, so quiet Isabela is forced to take a step forward, lean in to hear better. Whatever ire she’d managed to thrum up within herself in preparation for a fight leaves her suddenly, and without a trace. “It still doesn’t. I thought that maybe, maybe if I went to Weisshaupt-- told them what happened…”

It’s almost like deja vu, standing here towering above Hawke like this. When she looks up at Isabela from the edge of the bed, it’s with nearly the same lost expression she’d had so many years ago in Kirkwall, and it tears her insides to shreds in an instant. Isabela likes to think she’s grown as a person a bit since then, that she can handle more of the messy feelings than she could before. In practice, however, she just feels gutted, with no more idea of what to say or how to comfort Hawke than she ever had.

“Hawke, I--”

“I should have died back there, Bela.”

The confession knocks the breath from her like a punch to the guts. Slowly, she sinks to her knees, her hands finding purchase on Hawke’s. There’s a raw look of relief in her eyes, when Isabela glances up, like she’d finally admitted to a crime she’d long tried to keep hidden.

“I think-- I think I was supposed to. It should have been my penance for bringing back Corypheus. A part of me even wanted to, I think-- if it weren’t for the Inquisitor--”

She doesn’t hear what else Hawke has to say over the dull roar between her ears. The idea of her dying is-- Isabela’s mind refuses to finish even that thought, veering around it. With a sinking, sickening feeling she realizes just why Hawke’s trail had been so easy to follow.

There are a few unshed tears in Hawke’s eyes, making them glisten in the lantern light. The sight chills her. Hawke does not cry often. In fact, Isabela can only recall one other time-- both the first and the last-- the night they found Hawke’s mother, or what was left of her. Not a single tear since then, no matter what they’d been through. Until now.

Hawke shakes her head, and the tears fall halfway down her cheeks. “But then I thought about you, Isabela-- about leaving you all alone and I-- I couldn't. I was selfish, and I couldn’t, and now more people are dead because of me again, and I’m… still here...”

Isabela doesn’t know what happened to Hawke out there. Varric’s letter had been vague, but urgent. Terse in a way Varric rarely was, until it was too late. Until things were too serious. _Hawke on her way to Weisshaupt. Knew you’d want to know. Go find her Rivaini, she needs you._ Clearly Varric had been right, but still-- whatever she thought she’d find, she certainly hadn’t been prepared for this. What could he have possibly hoped she’d be able to do?

Hawke reaches out and trails a gentle touch beneath the curve of Isabela’s jaw. Her normally steady and sure hands are trembling. “I’m so sorry, Isabela. I wanted to come back, I did. I just-- not like this. I had to deserve you again first.”

The idea is so laughable, Isabela barely holds it in. That Hawke of all people could struggle to be worthy of anything, let alone _her_? As if any part of Hawke could ever be found wanting.

“No-- no, no, no,” she breathes, “you could never be-- listen, I’m the selfish one, yeah? You’re the good one, you always have been.”

Wrong. Wrong thing to say. Hawke’s face crumples, and Isabela panics. Reaching up, she takes Hawke’s face between her hands, her palms damp now with Hawke’s tears. She’s sinking, flailing, unsure which way is up or down. She doesn’t know how to do this. “Hey, look at me. Hawke, look at-- damnit.” Her arms strain from the urge to shake her, but her grip forcibly remains gentle, only tilting Hawke’s face to meet her own. Isabela takes a deep breath, diving into the unknown. “You being alive is not selfish… and even if it is, so be it. I don’t know what happened out there. Maybe I don’t want to know. I do know that I don’t care about anybody else, okay? You’re it. You being alive--” She breathes out through her mouth, tremulous. “You being alive is the only thing that makes this fucking world worth living in. So don’t you dare be ashamed of that.”

She’s out of words now. She’s not even sure where those had come from, some deep, unfathomable part of her where truths lurk that were never meant to be known or examined-- that should never have seen the light of day-- like the things down in the darkest, blackest depths of the oceans.

Luckily, blessedly, Hawke doesn’t seem to need more from her. Not words anyway. Hawke reaches out, beckoning her close, and Isabela follows willingly. The hands on her face slip easily into Hawke’s hair as they meet, at last, with a kiss. Hawke’s lips are as sweet as Isabela remembers, even as the salt-taste of tears mingle on their tongues. It’s familiar, in a way, like kissing on the deck of their ship, hot sun and salt-spray on their skin.

Her mouth is warm and welcome, but pleading. With every slip of her tongue, Hawke asks silently for forgiveness. Isabela isn’t sure when she became the arbiter of such grand things, but she tries. Of course she tries. Hawke is here. Hawke is safe, and alive, by the grace of someone or other-- The Maker? Andraste and her so-called Herald? It doesn’t matter. She’d throw her lot in with either, both, maybe even some of those elven gods for good measure, if it meant Hawke would stay that way. For now, she answers Hawke’s pleas with a scrape of teeth across her bottom lip. Hawke whimpers, clutches at Isabela’s back, nails scraping her skin, and it brings Isabela to the brink-- heart in her throat, groaning, fingers tightening first in Hawke’s hair, then trailing down to bring their bodies flush.

Isabela hovers over her, knees bracketing Hawke’s hips. Those beguiling, dragon’s hoard eyes watch her from beneath dark lashes. It’s a look all too familiar. A sultry, blooming warmth spreads, like good whiskey, from the pit of her stomach to the tips of her fingers. She recognizes this, knows too well what it feels like to seek absolution in another body. For them to burn away those nastiest parts of you, even if just for a moment. To make you feel the most alive you’ve ever felt. Isabela is no Revered Mother, is no more capable of doling out dispensations than a fish is capable of breathing air, but for Hawke… she could do this. She could, she would. If Hawke asked it of her, she would walk on water. If she demanded it, she would fly.

She trails bites and kisses down the column of Hawke’s throat, and Hawke gasps-- keening for it -- writhing under her touch. Her nipples harden quickly under Isabela’s palms, no breast band to hinder the touch, just the thin fabric of her chemise adding to the friction. She wants her mouth on them. Wants the salt taste of Hawke’s skin on her tongue, as desperate for it as for water in a desert.

It’s Hawke who reaches down and yanks the chemise over her head, tossing it toward some already forgotten corner of the room. Her hands linger on Isabela’s hips, then trail up her own midriff, teasing, inviting Isabela’s gaze. The long, raised scar-- the one that starts just under her breasts, a few fingers to the left of center, and mars her abdomen in a single, uninterrupted line nearly to her belly button -- stares up at her. It always does, when they’re like this. A permanent, constant reminder of Isabela’s own failures and misgivings branded across Hawke’s body by the Arishok’s blade. Most days she hates it. She still does, but today she kisses it, determined only to feel grateful for the rise and fall of Hawke’s breath beneath.

There are a few new scars to accompany it, not just on her midsection, Isabela notes, now that she feels free to look, but her arms, her legs. Hawke is normally far too accomplished a healer to leave herself riddled with the remnants of battle, so these--these must be special for some reason. Kept as mementos. As reminders.

Of the handful she finds, some seem to be from ordinary blades, already reduced to faint marks that could have been there for decades if Isabela hadn’t kept the image of Hawke’s body, exactly as she’d left it, perfect in her mind’s eye. Locked away in her memories for safe keeping. Others are less commonplace and look nearly like... like claws. Like teeth. A shudder runs through her, but her lips trail over them anyway, tongue darting out to catch the sweat beading across the flat plane of Hawke’s stomach. The muscles twitch under her touch, and Hawke jerks away with a squeak, ticklish as always. Isabela smiles, putting thoughts of scars from her mind, and lifts herself to kiss Hawke properly on her now chewed-raw lips.

“Bela, please,” she whispers between kisses. “Don’t tease me.”

Want surges through Isabela’s veins, sending ripples across the building pool of desire in her nethers. Sitting up, she gives Hawke, who gazes back at her flushed and wanting, an indulgent grin that spreads slow across her face. How could she deny such a request?

“All right, Hawke. All right.”

Hawke whines when Isabela stands to divest herself of her clothing. However meager it may be, suddenly it feels like it’s suffocating her. The last piece has hardly touched the floor before she hears the quick patter of feet, then Hawke plasters herself against her back. Her sweet, full breasts press warm against her shoulder blades, arms wrapping around her stomach, her chest, reaching for nothing in particular-- touching only for the sake of closeness. Lips trail up the line of Isabela’s shoulder, tickling and chaste, until teeth press at the the back of her neck. A primal growl escapes from deep in her chest, and Isabela turns, Hawke’s grip on her loose enough it’s easy to bring them nose to nose.

In an instant, the world narrows down to this and only this. A tiny room, in a tiny inn, in a town no one cares about, pressed chest to naked chest with Hawke, their breath mingling as they both pant slightly with desire. She doesn’t quite touch Hawke roughly, but her palms skim over the curves of her with pressure, imagining she can smooth over whatever cracks have formed inside her like soft clay. There is no sign of what passed between them earlier now, save for the memories Isabela will likely never shake. Hawke looks at her with a different type of bone-aching need, and for that Isabela is silently grateful. She can’t fix the things Hawke suffered, no matter how much she wishes she could, but she can give her this. It is easy, second nature, to give Hawke whatever she wants. Simple, because Isabela wants, too. Wants to forget, wants her own rough edges worn away just as much. They had always done that for each other, since the beginning-- filing down, eroding each other’s souls, tit for tat, until they and they alone fit together exactly. Corners squared and curves straightened, complimentary in ways no one else would ever manage.

She slides her bare thigh between both of Hawke’s and presses upwards, her hands gripping the supple flesh of Hawke’s ass through her smalls. Hawke groans, canting her hips to chase the friction. Even through the fabric, Isabela can feel the scalding slick left behind on her skin, waiting there-- just for her.

“So desperate, Hawke?” Isabela purrs, lips pressed to her temple. Her fingers slip beneath the flimsy cloth band. “You’re still practically half dressed.”

Rather than balk at her tease, Hawke simply wraps her arms around Isabela’s neck and rolls her hips again. “So do something about it.”

That voice raises gooseflesh across her shoulders; her Champion Voice, the same that had commanded armies and quelled riots, now turned upon her in full force. So Isabela does the only thing she can do. She follows orders.

She drops to her knees, winking up at Hawke who meets her eye with a startled flush. Her smalls slip off easily, cool and damp by the time Isabela plucks them from around Hawke’s ankles and flings them away. Isabela’s mouth waters at the promise of Hawke’s cunt, barely hidden between slightly spread legs, at the same time her heart does an impromptu somersault.

The angle is poor, kneeling here in the middle of the floor, but Isabela can’t help herself-- she has to taste. Hawke’s clit is deliciously firm under her tongue, and the bittersweet musk flooding her mouth makes her feel light-headed. Unbalanced, Hawke’s hands sink into her hair and tug. Exquisite pressure ripples from her scalp all the way down to her toes, walking that tight-wire between just right and too much.

“Fuck,” Hawke curses. She gasps again when Isabela swirls her tongue against her in a particularly rogueish way, then sucks her clit between her lips. “Oh! _Bela_ \--”

Isabela hums against her and, eventually, pulls away. There’s already matching twinges forming in her neck and jaw, and her knees are starting to ache from being pressed to the rough-hewn floor. She’s not as young as she once was, but that hadn’t stopped her yet. Never would, if she had her way. Not with the dazed and dreamy look on Hawke’s face as her incentive. She kisses Hawke’s quivering thigh, the soft skin beneath her belly button, then stands, managing to lick her lips once before Hawke’s crash against them, chasing her own taste on Isabela’s tongue with a bruising kiss.

In another time, in another place, she would have laid Hawke down on sheets much nicer than this, gently, as delicate as one of those fancy bejeweled eggs she’d once seen resting on velvet pillows in the Antivan royal palace. Here and now, there is no space for such gentleness. Hawke’s kisses are deep and rough, her hands pushing and pulling at Isabela, forcing the both of them back down onto the bed with a _whumph_ , Hawke once again riding astride her thigh.

Humping is a terribly crude word for such an act, something meant more for the inelegant thrusting men seemed so accustomed to. When Hawke moves, she rolls like a wave against her, full of almost preternatural grace, chasing her release while Isabela lies back and enjoys the show. Were she a more superstitious person, she might mistake such a sight for some tricky work of the Fade, bent to the will of a talented mage. Seduced and enchanted, her mind bamboozled by blood magic, or other such shit. She knows better. Magic isn’t exactly her forte, but this, she is sure, is purely Hawke.

Occasionally, Isabela will reach up to pinch and twist at Hawke’s nipples, catching her breasts as they bounce enticingly against her chest and giving them a harsh squeeze. Hawke whines, but still leans into the pain.

“That’s it,” she offers, pulling away to splay her hands wide over Hawke’s thighs. She relishes the way the muscles strain against her palms as she moves, something mesmerizing in such power reduced down to this most primal act. Her hands trail up--up--up, past her churning hips, back to grip Hawke’s ass. “Fuck yourself against me. You’re so sodding beautiful, Hawke. You know that?”

Hawke whimpers and bites her lip, a deep blush darkening her cheeks down to her chest. She looks down and away, playing at some facsimile of shyness. Isabela’s own cunt throbs in response, desperate for attention, but she steadfastly ignores it. This is Hawke’s pleasure, her power to hold for now. Her own can wait its turn-- though not for long if the sudden quickening of Hawke’s hips is any indication.

“You’re going to come just like this, yeah? Rubbing off on my thigh? Come on, then, sweetness.” She presses that thigh upwards just as Hawke grinds down. “Come for me.”

Hawke gasps, shaking, curling inward, her short nails seeking traction and digging deep crescents into Isabela’s arms. Then her head drops back, eyes screwed shut, body breathless and pulled taut like a bowstring as her orgasm takes her, consumes her.

She lets out a cry Isabela is sure every patron of the inn, along with any passers by on the street below, can hear. They should only be so lucky, she thinks. Hawke is gorgeous when she comes, the sights and sounds she makes unparalleled. Isabela can attest to this, by virtue of the sheer amount of times she’s brought herself off thinking just of them.

Then all at once that bowstring snaps, cut with unseen shears, and Hawke sags weakly against her chest. Isabela’s arms twine around her, holding her close and petting the smooth plane of her back in what she hopes are comforting strokes until Hawke’s breath settles, easing from ragged panting to deep, even breaths. She resembles some kind of great cat, curled up and tucked under Isabela’s chin, fitted like she was made to be there. Eventually, Hawke’s eyes drift closed, lines of tension and exhaustion Isabela had failed to notice before melting from her face. Even so, she never seems to slip past that place of languid dozing into true sleep.

Isabela can. Trapped under the weight and heat of Hawke’s body, her eyelids droop dangerously low, and her sweeping hand slows to a standstill somewhere around Hawke’s third rib. Everything quiets-- their breathing, the thoughts flitting around in her head, even the thrum of her own desire, left unsated, manages to fade pleasantly to the wayside. Was it the sex that left her feeling cotton-headed and drowsy? Had she been this tired all along? Or were the seemingly endless, anxious months of Hawke’s absence finally taking their toll?

She missed this most if all, she thinks blearily in the direction of the ceiling, at a crack shaped exactly like the curve of the Rialto Bay. All those long days and restless nights floating out on the open sea, craving Hawke’s presence beside her, to ground her. Every moment looking out over the helm at the endless horizon, at the Breach hanging ever ominous in the sky, spent wondering when-- if ever -- she would return. Wondering if she would never again have this, something so simple as the weight of not just any body-- Hawke’s body-- pressed against her own.

She blinks, for what feels like only a moment, and when she opens her eyes the light in the room has shifted. She’d fallen asleep. Not long, perhaps fifteen, twenty minutes, but longer than she’d intended, which wasn’t at all. Embarrassed, she hazards a glance down at what she hopes will be the top of Hawke’s also sleeping head, and finds her staring back at her, smiling softly.

Hawke places a kiss in the space between her breasts without breaking eye contact.

“There you are, sleepy,” she says quietly. “I hope you didn’t think I’d forgotten about you.” It takes seconds too long for Isabela’s sleep addled brain to catch up with her words. Hawke’s slender fingers are already dipping down between Isabela’s legs, spreading her still wet folds with practiced ease.

Her hips buck, her toes curl into the rough sheets, and she sucks in a sharp breath through her nose all at once. The desire that had resigned itself to dormancy suddenly comes rushing right back to the forefront, desperate to make up for the attention it had been denied.

Hawke’s middle finger, it must be her middle finger because she’s still holding Isabela wide open, brushes her clit and her breath escapes her as a wanton moan. Her head is still fuzzy, her body sleep-soft and unwieldy, and she comes all too quickly, like some untouched virgin, with only one of Hawke’s fingers buried inside her. She almost grabs Hawke’s wrist, almost begs her to keep fucking her until she comes again, but the strength in her arms simply isn’t there. It takes all she has left to flop rather unceremoniously onto her side, dragging Hawke back down into an embrace.

“This bed is horrendous,” she says with a muffled yawn against Hawke’s shoulder. Her eyes feel gritty, but she fights against the warm draw of sleep trying to reclaim her. “An absolute travesty. There’s hardly any room. And what is this filled with, straw? More like rocks. I miss our bed-- it misses you too y’know.”

“Mm, Bela--”

“Not the same without you; when we get back to the ship I won’t let you out of it for days,”

“Isabela.”

She quiets, blinking up at Hawke, who is back to looking entirely too serious after such a mindblowing orgasm. Then the lines around her eyes soften again, and she reaches out to trace a finger against the bridge of Isabela’s nose.

“Bela, you-- you have to know that I’m-- I can’t just go back with you now.”

Later she’ll blame the petulance on sleep deprivation. Her arm laying over Hawke’s torso tightens, like a child clutching a stuffed toy. “No-- no, you--”

“I have to go to Weisshaupt.”

“You really don’t.”

“Please--” There is a hint of that broken tone at the edge of her words again, and Isabela feels a wave of sick, icy guilt wash over her. “Let me finish what I started.”

It would be so much easier if she could simply order Hawke to drop this. Or maybe if she didn’t care so damned much about her. Her heart had ached so much less from the high shelf she’d kept it on, locked safely away-- before Hawke had come around and made such a mess of her all those years ago; taken it down and wound her up like a great dwarven clock, ticking away ever since. She wishes she could say she regrets it, but the thought fizzles out before it even truly forms. Of course she doesn’t. That’s what makes this all the more complicated. Always has, always will.

“I’m going with you,” she says, the words shocking her almost as much as Hawke, whose brows shoot up towards her hairline.

“Bela, no,”

“ _Bela, yes_ ,” she mocks, certainty solidifying in her gut. “That’s my price, for not tying you up and dragging you back kicking and screaming right this minute. I’m done with being left behind.”

Hawke at least has the grace to look away, slightly shame-faced. Isabela taps her chin, forcing her to look back before she finishes.

“If this going to Weisshaupt thing is this important, then we’ll do it together, like old times. I won’t let you face this shit alone, not again, not anymore.”

Hawke could refuse. There’s a look to her that says she wants to, that stubborn set to her jaw that so clearly wants to say _“No, Isabela. I’m the one who helps, not the helped. I’ve got a martyr complex the size of old Tevinter, and I’m too damned thick-headed to admit it.”_ Or rather, that isn’t what she wants to say, but what her expression says so clearly without a word. This wouldn’t be the first post-coital argument Isabela had lost, but it might be the worst.

She braces herself for the rebuff, but instead Hawke simply sighs, and nods her head.

“Fine. We’ll go together, then. You’re right.”

Every clenched muscle in Isabela’s body goes slack. Part of her is suspicious at such an easy capitulation, the other is nearly shaking with relief. She kisses the corner of Hawke’s mouth, over and over, until Hawke turns and kisses her back. There is a dampness gathering at the corners of her eyes that she hopes isn’t obvious, so she rolls to her other side just in case.

“Of course I’m right,” she says, drawing Hawke’s arm over herself, fingers laced together against her breastbone. If Hawke notes the tear when it falls, she keeps her mouth well shut. “When aren’t I?”

Hawke’s breath huffs soft against her hair.

Isabela hums. “First light then? You always like an early start, don’t you?” She tries to wait for an affirmation, but the pull of her eyelids is too strong. She lets the Fade take her with a yawn, the weight of Hawke’s arm and the warmth of her body nearly enough to chase away the chill of unease in her bones.

When she wakes again, it is full dark. The only light comes through the single paned, curtainless window high on the west facing wall. The moon is nearly as bright as the sun, round and full as summer gives way to fall. She can feel Hawke breathing slow and deep behind her, can hear her quiet snores. Very very carefully extricates herself from beneath her arm. Hawke hardly moves, very much asleep now. The moon turns her dark hair almost blue where it fans out, splayed across the pillow. Isabela reaches out and touches it, lets the light catch, coloring it like raven’s feathers. Still, Hawke doesn’t move.

She wants to curl back up into the warmth of Hawke’s body, into the cocoon of her arms, but her body is electric. Restlessness pulls her up from the bed, leads her around the room collecting the things she knows are Hawke’s and some she knows are not, and placing them into a worn rucksack. She leaves it beside Hawke’s staff, propped up behind the door.

Isabela wonders if the thought occurred to Hawke at all, to leave. To run, while she watched Isabela sleep. If any part of her had considered packing her bag and disappearing, leaving her to wake in an empty bed with a few hours start between them.

But no, that wasn’t her Hawke. She had never been that sort, not cowardly and afraid of the harsh words that might come, of the disappointed glances. Not like Isabela. Hawke was the bulwark, a dam that stood resilient and steadfast. Isabela was the stream, the water, searching for any nook and cranny through which to slip.

Isabela sighs, loud in the otherwise oppressive quiet. This is where the old Isabela would have run, she thinks. Under cover of night, out the door, and never to be seen again. The easy way out. Now Isabela knows better. Has tried and failed at it enough times to know that, no matter how easy it may seem, the distance between her and Hawke would always pull them back together. As constant as the moon pulled the tides.

Hawke whimpers in her sleep. Barely audible, Isabela might not have even noticed were it not for the pin-drop silence. Her face contorts into a grimace, head flailing against the pillow, and in a near panicked sounding whimper, cries out _no-- no._ Tales of dreams and the demons that haunt those of mages lurk, insidious, at the corners of Isabela’s mind as she crosses quickly to her side, stroking the hair away from her face with one hand and clutching both of Hawke’s in her other. Hawke doesn’t wake. Whatever dream the fade has her trapped in keeps firm its hold.

Agonizing minute after even more agonizing minute, her face slowly but surely calms under Isabela’s touch. Her breathing returns to its deep rhythm, but it’s Isabela’s heart that races now. Was it fits like these that left her so exhausted? Did the _things_ that left those marks on her skin haunt her, even in dreams? The thought terrified her, gooseflesh pebbling her bare arms. If there was any lingering doubt about following Hawke left in her, it fades immediately. She knows it’s not what Hawke wants, not truly, despite her acquiescence. She had seen the resignation in her eyes, and the memory of it burns her from the inside, charing her heart black and raw, but--

Isabela looks down at Hawke, her cheek cradled in the cup of Isabela’s palm. Damn what Hawke wants. She’d meant what she’d said, about being the selfish one. Always was, always would be. Hawke had always been too kind, had always tried to convince her she was better than she thought, but Isabela knew herself down to the foundations. It was what had kept her alive, what she’d built her whole sense of self on. She _was_ selfish. Selfish enough to leave when she was wanted. Selfish enough to stay when she wasn’t.

And if keeping her safe, even from herself, meant that Hawke hated her just a little-- well, she could live with that.

**Author's Note:**

> “Be careful, oh, my darling  
> Oh, Be careful what it takes  
> From what I've seen so far  
> The good ones always seem to break” - ‘Sky Full of Song’, Florence + The Machine
> 
> \--  
> Come say hi to me on [tumblr](http://queenofeden.tumblr.com)!


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